


Fingertips

by Sannguine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Glove Kink, Leather Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sannguine/pseuds/Sannguine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No. He keeps things simple, running his fingertips along the smooth, black leather. Tracing the stitching with a smirk, a sort of boyish flush creeping up under his collar as he thinks of these gloves wrapping tight around his throat and squeezing, eyes half-lidded to take in just how fucking beautiful his Tiger will look with his hands slipped so snuggly into these.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingertips

It was meant to be a gift, more or less. Something to show Sebastian that, despite his often volatile and sporadic moods, moods of which the sniper was well accustomed to already, Jim could still rationalize that they weren’t often needed.

It was a _gift_ , because James fucking Moriarty wanted it to be. And he _never_ liked giving gifts. Except for today when he did.

Honestly, he’s a little surprised at himself, for even going along with this absurd idea. He was acting like a love-struck fool, to be going out of his way like this. He can’t remember the last time he found himself hand-picking a gift out. Going through the unnecessary yet somehow fitting ordeal of getting it personalized just for Sebastian.

He found the sentiment in his actions almost suffocating, but Moran always reacted far better to these things, these _surprises_ and tokens of _affection_ ; he possessed more of a conscience than Jim did, after all. Perhaps possessed more heart. The irony of that, his proud and deadly Tiger, a terrible and dangerous man, nearly as dangerous as he, in possession of something so _fragile_ as a heart.

Maybe that was fitting, after all. He balanced Jim out so well, did he not?

It takes nearly three hours for Jim to find the right gift. Nothing about what he does is rushed, everything is taken into consideration, to the finest detail at that. He’s spent most of the afternoon strolling lazily through the shops on a busy London street, such an odd sensation. He’s normally withdrawn from social encounters unless he chooses to be, but this. This seems therapeutic, in some ways. Possibly, that he can mesh so well with the rest of London’s crowd while still retaining the power he so knowingly possesses. Always about ego, after all. 

He doesn’t dwell on it too much, because his eyes are being drawn off towards the right, into a shop that smells strongly of leather. A young, dark-haired woman approaches him as he steps into the quaint shop and she greets him in Italian, smiles brightly at Jim as he regards her with little more than smirk. He converses with her, briefly, in her native tongue, requests to see some of the finely crafted gloves kept off to the back of the room, and she is more than happy to oblige his request.

Strangely therapeutic, he finds himself thinking. To be doing something so mundane as picking out a gift for his lov—his _Colonel_. A part of him, a _very_ small part of him, hopes that Sebastian will enjoy receiving it as much as Jim enjoyed picking it out for him.

What a strange feeling to have.

He settles on a pair that he finds Sebastian would appreciate—it’s nothing too flashy, the cursed bastard being the least flashy man Jim knows, perhaps apart from that lapdog Sherlock keeps around. No. He keeps things simple, running his fingertips along the smooth, black leather. Tracing the stitching with a smirk, a sort of boyish flush creeping up under his collar as he thinks of these gloves wrapping tight around his throat and squeezing, eyes half-lidded to take in just how fucking _beautiful_ his Tiger will look with his hands slipped so snuggly into these. Applying just the right amounts of pressure, knowing how well to read him, his facial expression. Gauge his arousal with just a look alone and letting him linger there, just on the edge of consciousness.

So maybe they’ll both be getting gifts tonight. Nothing wrong with that.

He debates having something embroidered onto the gloves. Debates maybe his initials, because after all, Sebastian _is_ his. But that seems borderline tacky, and it would take away from the appeal of such a finely crafted gift. Besides, they both already know that Moran is his and his alone, he doesn’t need a reminder of such things. Not in such an off-handed way as stitching, how _boring_.

No. There were far more creative, more inspiring ways to do that. The matching scars along both their chests were proof enough of such measures. Each other’s initials carved into their skin, in a fit of passion that some would deem illogical. Sebastian deemed it normal, and Jim revered in the ritualistic nature they both took to it.

The closest thing to a vow James Moriarty would be taking.

When his gift is wrapped, it’s wrapped first within a soft layer of silk, the same deep crimson colour Sebastian often comes home in. The gloves are treated with the utmost care, wrapped neatly and placed into a cream-coloured box. Jim thanks the young woman for her assistance, taking his bag in tow and making the return journey back home, _their_ home.

* * *

It’s nearing something close to nine that night when Jim finally does make it back home. Sebastian is somewhere off upstairs, probably sleeping, given the surprisingly quiet and nearly pristine condition the living room has been left in. Poor bastard. Jim reckons if he’s been pushing his Tiger too hard lately. Days, sometimes weeks spent away. Clean up jobs, assassination hits, collecting valuables from those that would think themselves just as powerful and mighty as James Moriarty but always failing short, at his feet no less. All the dirty work Jim refuses to partake in that Sebastian willingly does with a smile.

When he slides his shoes off, loosens his tie, hangs his jacket up in the walk-in closet nearby the door, Jim can’t help but smile now. A sort of genuine smile at the thought of how domestic this all feels. He trails fingertips up the banister as his steps leave no footfall on the stairs, box stuffed neatly under his arm. He swings their bedroom door open, softly, not so surprised to find Sebastian sprawled out in bed, thin sheets wrapped around his naked torso, most of the pillows shoved off the bed. Typical, and somehow fitting; he imagines a fierce predator such as a tiger would sleep much the same way.

The option to slide into bed next to him, wake him up with his lips, his teeth and nails is there, but Jim dismisses the idea. He didn’t go out of his way today to muck up his plan. Instead, he leaves the box on the nightstand on Sebastian’s side of the bed, leaves it in plain view for him to see when he stirs from his slumber. As an afterthought, Jim runs his fingers through dirty blond locks, brushes some of Sebastian’s hair away from his face and smiles down at him.

This is the closest thing to love he will allow himself to have.

He retreats from their bedroom, pads back downstairs into the living room and off to the side into the kitchen, where he flicks the electric kettle on and prepares himself a cup of tea. Sleep does not have its hold on him, not yet, and there is much that can be done in the meantime. With his mug in hand, he meanders his way into his study, switches his laptop on and begins to work out algorithms for his next genius idea. What that might be, well, he hasn’t gotten that far yet, but the numbers come easily to him, fingers falling quickly over the keys.

Somewhere between jotting down an equation in his notebook and glancing off towards his screen again, he nearly jumps out of his skin when something cold and soft touches the nape of his neck, softly at first, but then increasing in pressure when Jim tries to turn around. It doesn’t take a genius to piece together that Sebastian has woken up, and somewhere in his mathematical stupor Jim was too caught up to listen to his surroundings.

Or perhaps Sebastian was just that stealthy these days. Perhaps both.

“I see you’ve found your gift.” There’s a playful tone to Jim’s voice, something that’s not found often enough. He senses Sebastian picks up on it, because the grip loosens a fraction and those gloved fingers slide a little further down the side of his neck, tracing the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

“I did, thanks. Picked them out yourself, I reckon?”

“Just for you.”

Instead of thanking him with words, however, Sebastian thanks him with actions. Jim thinks that the touches are too fleeting, too passive for his liking, but he finds that his heartrate has picked up regardless, that his head is canting off to the side opposite of where those leather-clad fingers work, his neatly combed hair brushed askew by clever fingers.

He wonders if it’s the breath that Sebastian expels along the nape of his neck that gives him goosebumps, or if it’s the way those fingers deftly linger between lovingly stroking his skin and curling around his throat just threateningly enough to cause his breath to hitch. Jim decides he doesn’t rightly care, offering up a wicked smile when Sebastian uses the space granted to him to lean down and press a heated kiss to the side of Jim’s jaw.

The Tiger knows him well, too well, more than he’s let anyone else in before. Sebastian doesn’t give him what he wants immediately. He lets Jim inhale the strong sent of leather first, teases him along the front of his chest with his other hand as he leans over him. It’s only when Jim begins to fidget in his seat does his Colonel wrap his fingers tighter around that lithe neck, presses heavily on the sides of his throat with enough pressure to feel the gasp of air Jim takes in.

He’s become an expert and extracting sounds Jim would otherwise never utter in his lifetime.

It’s only for seconds that Sebastian does this, but it feels like minutes, hours, an infinite, uncalculated amount of time in Jim’s mind as he feels the oxygen begin to elude him. He lets himself go limp, well, no.. That’s not entirely true. His body relaxes for the most part, save the swell of his cock between his legs, pressing somewhat eagerly to the front of his pants as Sebastian continues to work at him. It was ignorable, for now. More of a nuisance if anything. Jim wanted to savour the lightheadedness that came with this, their games, not worry about rutting himself into climax.

“ _Filthy_.” He hears the word against his ear, and he nods as much as that grip allows him, all crooked smiles, agreeing. He may be right, but Moran is no better.

Sebastian only responds to that smirk by pressing down harder, by threading the same fingers that were exploring down the front of Jim’s chest earlier through his normally neatly-kept raven locks and yanks, _hard_ , pulling Jim’s head backwards. It somewhat painful, resting like this, the back of his head pinned against the unforgiving oak of his chair, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wouldn’t have Sebastian treating him any other way.

He loves this. They both do. They get off on it in their own ways, Jim enjoying the opportunity to relinquish control to a man that would do absolutely anything for him. He lets Sebastian believe that he’s the one in control here, and in some ways he is, but the sniper wouldn’t do anything that Jim wouldn’t already let him do. Sebastian gets what he needs, and Jim still retains some amount of control over their endeavors. It worked.

The ache between his hips has grown from an unpleasantly to something that needed to be addressed before Jim reckoned he might kill a man over. And with no shame in the act he’s shoving a hand down the front of his pants, rubbing at himself in time to his heavy gasping and the own grunts Sebastian makes as he watches his idol rubbish himself in his work chair. It wouldn’t be long now, no.

With one final squeeze around his neck, sore now from the pressure, from fingertips digging into his skin, the chaffing the leather would leave behind along with the bruises, Jim lets out a reedy whine, eyes rolling back into his head as he rides out the high Sebastian gives him, the weightlessness that he feels and the white-hot ache nestled between his hips. He does his best to come into his hand, not fond of having to clean his pants of such filth. He ruts himself one last time before he wills himself back into a state of something akin to dignity, and he finds himself scoffing at the word.

He need not be anything of the sort with this man, this… _lover_ of his. Whatever they were. He could lose himself like this, often had in the past, without fear of any repercussions to the act. The way Sebastian is staring down at him with softened eyes, stroking at his bruised flesh with his fingertips, ungloved now, an apology on his lips for getting so carried away… lover may have been the correct word here. If just for the moment.

“Don’t you dare be sorry.” And they both know that’s a threat. Jim suddenly feels sleepy, rightfully so, having spent himself so recklessly like that. Sebastian picks up on it easily, rounding the chair to scoop the smaller man up into his arms and carry him upstairs, back into their bedroom. He lays him down on the bed and Jim is quick to wrap himself up into the blankets, but not before beckoning Sebastian over to the bedside to give him what is shockingly a sincere kiss. 

“Wake me in a few hours. How you do that, I’ll leave in your more than capable hands.”


End file.
